


the compound

by days4daisy



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: (sort of), Extra Treat, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Something Made Them Do It, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28168323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Two hours later, when Frenchie gets back, M.M. would deck him if it wouldn’t blow their cover. He ducks close to hiss over the bass flooding the walls and shivering under his boots. “Where the hell were you?”M.M. could dream up plenty of possible answers if he had to. None would have been Frenchie taking his face between his hands and locking their lips.
Relationships: The Frenchman/Mother's Milk (The Boys)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	the compound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaialux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/gifts).



> Happy holidays, gaialux! I hope you have a very nice Yuletide :)

By the time Frenchie returns, it’s after 1:30 in the morning and M.M. isn’t happy. Their job was to stake out this underground club Eclipse frequents. No contact, eyes and ears only, nothing to draw attention. So what does Frenchie do? Wander off minutes after arrival under a pretense of getting a ‘closer look.’ He’s been gone for two hours. M.M. has been stuck keeping an eye on the doors and bar area, hoping that Frenchie isn’t doing anything stupid.

M.M. hasn’t worked many solo jobs with Frenchie. The guy’s a character, no dull days around him. But he’s already proven himself to not be the most...consistent. Reliable, sure. M.M. doesn’t have a Cliff Notes on Frenchie, but his past life must have involved being resourceful. Dude can build a weapon out of anything. He’s got a mind sharp as a tack. And he makes M.M. laugh more often than anyone else in Mallory's brood.

But as good as Frenchie is in a jam, M.M. has a sinking suspicion he’s as much of a liability. Guys as smart as Frenchie see too many avenues to success. Frenchie is good, he knows he’s good, so he trusts his wildest ideas until they blow up in his face.

No one's busted them tonight. Not yet, anyway. But Frenchie’s gone too long, and M.M. has a creeping feeling itching up the back of his neck.

M.M. never bothered trying to pronounce the club’s name. Looks like Xanax with way more consonants sprinkled through the middle. As far as city night haunts go, it’s on the shabby chic side. Mood lighting, plastic candles behind elaborate silks to make them look more expensive. If not for the occasional supe clientele, there wouldn’t be much remarkable about it. The crowd is rich enough to wear low-cut designer dresses, but not rich enough for bodyguards or prime New York VIP.

Except Eclipse. Her entourage stuck out like a sore thumb even in innocuous matching black pants and shirts. They flocked behind her like a ‘v’ of buff geese, and it wasn’t long before Frenchie skulked off after them.

Frenchie already stood out, mesh black shirt swallowing him up like a thirsty mouth. Gold chain with a single Christmas ornament charm against his collar. “Tis the season,” he said when M.M. gave him a look. M.M. wasn’t the only one looking either. He saw heads turn at the bar counter, a subtle acknowledgment of new blood. A few gave M.M. a sizing-up, then turned their attention to Frenchie. It made M.M. hot under the collar; so much for no fanfare. Frenchie basked in the attention, mesh sucking up every line of his body. His black cargo pants don’t leave much to the imagination either. He’s a magnet in this place. M.M. can already hear the chewing out they’ll get from Mallory for going off-script and becoming the stars of the show. That’s _if_ they make it out of this job without Frenchie getting himself nabbed by their supe target, or worse.

Two hours later, when Frenchie gets back, M.M. would deck him if it wouldn’t blow their cover. He ducks close to hiss over the bass flooding the walls and shivering under his boots. “Where the hell were you?”

M.M. could dream up plenty of possible answers if he had to. None would have been Frenchie taking his face between his hands and locking their lips. M.M. goes stiff with shock. This isn’t one of Frenchie’s little greeting pecks. It’s a full-on kiss, long and lingering, and M.M. can’t even think of backing out at first. He’s so surprised, he just stands and takes it. Lets Frenchie go full “lovers reunion” on his mouth. Frenchie’s is warm and soft, even warmer than his body pressed right up on M.M.

Blown cover be damned, M.M. is going to toss the motherfucker over the bar counter.

That is, until Frenchie whispers, “Please.” His hands twitch against M.M.’s face, and his ragged breaths stutter down M.M.’s jaw. “It’s...not right.” Maybe it’s M.M.’s imagination, but Frenchie’s accent seems thicker than usual. ‘It’s’ drags extra-long, all _eeee_ and _zzzz_. If this was their first job together, M.M. wouldn’t understand him.

Something is wrong. _That_ M.M. reads loud and clear, even in Frenchie’s weighted accent. M.M. trusts Frenchie to be right; he trusts Frenchie’s warning signs as much as he doesn't trust Frenchie’s apparel. M.M. isn’t sure when their relationship turned. It's gone from ‘shady associates’ to ‘shady associates who have each other’s backs when they’re in deep shit.’

Whatever danger they’re in, whatever deep shit Frenchie is trying to warn him about? M.M. buys it. His startled tension bleeds out. Hands that had been about to clock Frenchie into next week settle low on Frenchie’s back instead. Frenchie pushes up into him like no one's touched him in years.

There’s a desperation to this whole act that M.M. doesn’t like. He might under different circumstances. He might really like it, actually. But Frenchie feels too frantic, body wedged against M.M. like he’d climb inside him for safety if he could. His hands shake against M.M.’s face. M.M. can only wonder what the guy got himself into. Is it all a fake-out? Maybe he needs to get some bad news pursuant off his tail. But if that’s it, Frenchie missed his calling in Hollywood. His anxiousness is a little too convincing, nervous tics twitching through his hands.

Drugged? But Frenchie’s lips don’t taste of anything. Except himself, except Frenchie; soft and surprisingly sweet. There’s no alcohol on his tongue. No hint of anything that might make him shiver in the arms M.M. winds tighter around his waist.

M.M. releases one hand for a bit more exploring. Frenchie’s shirt is so ridiculous, it’s easy to feel along his back. Check for puncture marks or scrapes that might be new. No bumps along his scalp, just Frenchie’s short hair prickling between his fingertips.

On the side of Frenchie’s neck, M.M.’s thumb crosses a round welt. Dip in the middle. Needle puncture, no doubt. “Goddamn it, Frenchie,” M.M. grumbles. His thumb crosses the raised welt again for good measure. Frenchie’s breath wheezes out. M.M. doesn’t feel particularly bad about it.

“Her nail.” Frenchie’s words come out choppy. “I said… I said I could not stay. I said my amour was waiting for me by the door. Oh...shit, she’s here.” M.M. sees her before Frenchie does.

Eclipse outclasses every bit of competition at this underground dive. If not for their current ‘deep shit’ circumstances, M.M. would wonder what she gets out of a place like this. Eclipse looks expensive without needing to dress the part. Her leather pants seem painted on, and a subtle line of diamonds holds her plunging shirt in place. In public, Eclipse chooses not to wear her trademark black lace shroud. M.M. has a knack for seeing through supe alter egos, but he seems to be a rarity. To everyone else here, Eclipse is one more wannabe at a too-trendy Meatpacking haunt.

Bodyguards flank Eclipse; they have her beat in height by a head and shoulders. But anyone with eyes for supes would tell easily who has the power. Eclipse’s arms show off a respectable flex of muscle, but her strength is most obvious in the way she holds herself. Her slow, even stride. Making eye contact without hesitation. Her fingernails point like cat claws painted black. M.M. imagines the tip of one breaching Frenchie’s neck.

“So you’re the amour.” Eclipse has a velvet baritone. ‘Get her on the fucking jazz circuit,’ Butcher said once.

M.M. puts on his best smile and loops an arm around Frenchie’s shoulders. The sag he feels against his side is alarming, but he doesn’t look, doesn’t let the concern show. Nothing to see here, big guy holding up his partner who's had one too many Sidecars.

“Guess so,” he says. “This one had a good time.” He gives Frenchie his most knowing look. Frenchie manages to tip a cheek against his shoulder, but his smile lacks its usual spark. “Think we’re heading out. Good meeting you.”

Eclipse folds arms over her chest, a nail tapping the inside of her elbow. “Yeah, no,” she says. Then, her eyes turn black.

Eclipse gets her name from her power. No one knows how it works, despite the studies done after she burst onto the crime-busting scene. To the naked eye, an eclipse seems to black out the sun, if only for a matter of minutes. For a supe, a matter of minutes is all it takes to do damage.

M.M. doesn’t get a nail through his neck that he can tell. He checks when he comes to, rubs his throat with a hand. He realizes that he’s on his back, arm shifting against a scratchy surface. The ceiling above him is a pebbled white with long panel grooves lining from one side of the room to the other.

He squints to one side. A lamp sits on a beat up wooden nightstand. One of those bowling ball-shaped porcelain bases in fashion a few decades ago. It casts the room in a creamy light, a hotel room by the looks of the outdated phone next to it. Past the foot of the bed is a desk, meant more for a kid’s room than an adult’s. He’s lying on top of a bed comforter, a blue quilted thing with pink flower vines swimming throughout.

Frenchie occupies the room’s other double bed. He’s on his back like M.M., glassy eyes facing the ceiling. Unlike M.M., Frenchie looks worse for wear. A layer of sweat shines across his brow. His face is hot, and he’s shaking enough for M.M. to notice. M.M. makes out the puncture spot swelling on Frenchie’s neck.

M.M. pushes himself to sit up. It feels strange at first. He's not quite dizzy but...different. Like his head knows he’s woken up someplace he wasn’t five seconds ago. Propped up on his hands, he looks to the other bed. “You good?” he asks.

“Oui,” Frenchie breathes, even though he isn’t.

M.M. sets his feet on the carpet. It looks like one big red wine stain flecked with lint and who knows what else. M.M. should be combing the room for clues, pulling back the blinds, figuring out where they are.

For whatever reason, though, he feels at ease. Not with this situation, the lost time, Eclipse off to who-knows-where. But M.M. knows he’s never been in this room, yet it’s familiar to him. Its cheapness feels like New York thrift. The crummy attempt at expensive-feeling satin curtains. The fact that the rest of the room’s budget went into poster prints of artwork in Dollar Store frames. M.M. recognizes a Monet landscape among them, no doubt something lining the walls of MoMA.

They’re still in New York. The traffic outside honks along like clockwork. Streetlights splatter like blood across the pink bedspread flowers. M.M. can’t imagine a hotel like this surviving in the trendier parts of Manhattan. Maybe they’re along the docks somewhere, or much further uptown. M.M. will take either over being blinked to someplace on the other side of the globe.

“She said something to me,” Frenchie says, gasping from the other bed. He has a hand against his neck, rubbing at the mark Eclipse left behind.

“Yeah,” M.M. grumbles. “I’m sure she said a lot of stuff and you said plenty back.”

Frenchie's head shake is more like a twitch, clipped and sudden, like a spasm outside his control. Frenchie starts breathing through his mouth. His eyes flutter closed, and M.M. remembers kissing him. How easy it was to do his job and play the part Frenchie needed him to. How a quiet “Please” felt against his skin.

“I got close to her,” Frenchie tells him. His voice strains, higher than usual. “Bought her a drink. We were talking. She told me who she was, didn’t make me guess at it.” His thumb crosses the raised needle puncture on his neck, like M.M.’s did what feels like minutes ago. Up and down. “I asked about Homelander.”

“Damn it, Frenchie.” M.M. rises from the bed. He paces the slim space between the mattresses, a frustrated hand combed across his scalp. “We were supposed to lay low on this one! Did you not hear Butcher? Now she’ll know we’re on to-”

“Oui. You’re right. She knows. That’s why this thing in my neck, this…’fun time,’ she said. But she said this too. She said ‘Fuck Homelander.’”

M.M. stops mid-stride. He looks down at Frenchie trying to meet eyes, his own bleary and unfocused. “You’re sure she said that? She wasn’t telling you to fuck Homelander with your ‘fun time,’ or whatever this is?”

As much as Frenchie is struggling, he still manages to look annoyed. His forehead creases in a tide of wrinkles, and his mouth pinches in a quivering snarl. “She said _Fuck Homelander,_ ” he repeats. “Said to find her after...all this. If we were serious.”

“If who was serious? You and your ‘amour’?” M.M. sighs in exasperation. “Or did you give up the whole damn op while you were at it? _Damn it_ , Frenchie-”

“I didn’t give up a thing!” The declaration slurs, negating any convincing it would have done otherwise. But Frenchie’s eyes, glazed over as they are, still narrow up at M.M. What did he blurt out with Eclipse’s ‘fun time’ in his veins? Who knows - but M.M. buys that Frenchie didn’t give up anything under his own volition.

M.M. sighs again, quieter this time, and stands with arms crossed looking down at Frenchie. “So, what now?” he asks. “What’s this ‘fun time’ she shot you up with?”

Frenchie looks away as soon as he asks the question. His quick breath makes his chest jerk under his stupid shirt. “It’s ok,” he says.

M.M. frowns, an instinct he’d like to blame on being too damn sentimental for his own good. “You need a hospital?” he asks. “Or something I can pick up? Some antidote?”

Frenchie barks a weak laugh. “No,” he says. “It’ll wear off. A few hours, maybe.” His thumb continues its scrape across his neck. Up and down. Up and down.

There’s something Frenchie isn’t telling him. Something written in the heat on his face. A frantic lick of his lips leaves his mouth wet. M.M. remembers how he looked under the club’s lights, how his mouth gleamed like a ‘Welcome’ sign. _Please_ breathed on him, like Frenchie couldn’t help himself.

“She did that to your neck,” M.M. says, “because she wanted a fun time with you, I’m guessing. But when you started feeling it, you backed off. Said you had some amour waiting back at the entrance. That’s when she knew what this all was.”

“I’m sorry, ok?” Frenchie snaps. His voice cracks halfway through the question. “I could have, with her. I have. I didn’t want to, but I should have-”

“Nah,” M.M. says. He doesn’t know Frenchie beyond what he’s gleaned from a few jobs together and riffing. Maybe he wants to know Frenchie, get a window into whatever makes the guy tick. But right now, in present circumstances, M.M. gets the gist. He’s glad Frenchie didn’t do anything he wasn't into for the mission. He’s glad Frenchie’s here with him, wherever the hell ‘here’ is. He’s glad no one else got their hands on him, even though Frenchie’s proven more than capable of taking care of himself.

M.M. sits on the side of Frenchie’s bed. Frenchie shifts away; the movement sounds bigger than it is thanks to the cheap bedspread fabric.

“What would make it easier?” M.M. asks.

Frenchie mutters something M.M. doesn’t understand in French with a few bad words tossed in.

M.M. puts a hand on Frenchie’s face. He’s fever-hot, and despite the grumbling it takes little effort to get Frenchie to look at him. He goes exactly where M.M. guides him, eyes large and dark. Frenchie’s mouth pops open, eagerly M.M. thinks, and it makes something wake up inside him. The same groggy thing that opened its eyes when Frenchie’s lips were as soft as he'd expected.

“Would this help?” M.M. asks.

Frenchie scoffs, but the reaction lacks his usual zing. He licks his lips, nervous this time. M.M. looks at his mouth, only catches himself when it’s too late to not be obvious about it.

“I don’t want it because it would help,” Frenchie tells him. He stares up at M.M., and the meaning is obvious. The Exit door is open, a way out extended like an olive branch.

It’s the moment of clarity that hits M.M. the hardest. That makes him warm up like he did when Frenchie’s body was against his. The choice given, when the guy feels like shit. When it no doubt _would_ help, even make whatever pain Frenchie is in go away entirely.

“I’m not saying no,” M.M. tells him. Frenchie’s cheekbone is strict under his fingers. Frenchie’s breath stutters out like a skipping record. “How about you?” M.M. adds. “What are you saying?” He asks seriously, hawk-eying for any sign of hesitation.

Frenchie chokes out a laugh. “Fuck,” he hisses. “I would have said yes before this whole goddamn mess.” It takes a minute for that to sink in. 

M.M. lets Frenchie know he likes the answer by pinning his hands against the mattress. Frenchie groans when his arms are shoved into the springs. He fights back anyway, pushing on M.M.’s hands. His eyes are like black coffee, amped up and ready. M.M. holds Frenchie down with legs straddled over his waist.

Frenchie doesn’t have the leverage or weight to reverse their positions, but he makes a damn good show of trying. He bucks under M.M., the friction between them hot and tight. Frenchie is hard in his too-tight pants, not leaving much to the imagination. What little there is, M.M. scopes out by pushing the issue with his size advantage. When he forces Frenchie down, Frenchie hisses something that isn't in English. His balled fists twitch in M.M.’s shirt, knotted up in fabric and not letting go.

So, yeah. They’re doing this.

When M.M. kisses Frenchie, Frenchie is every bit as desperate as before. A moan floods the space between them when their mouths meet. It’s a surprise when Frenchie’s tics open. Frenchie wants M.M. to kiss him, and M.M.’s fine with that. He realizes that he would have said yes before this goddamn mess too.

Somewhere in the fray, Frenchie manages to yank M.M.’s shirt over his head. His hands don’t seem to know what to grab, sliding from back to front with the focus of a hyperactive kid. M.M. lets him do what he wants. Frenchie wedges up against him, and M.M. grinds his weight down. Gets them so close that Frenchie’s breath wheezes out. “You’re...a real cocktease, huh?” Frenchie gasps.

M.M. snorts. “I can be.” But he’s more interested in how the light plays off the wet curve of Frenchie’s lips. The deep color across his cheeks that stretches down his throat and warms his chest to a faint pink.

His knees dig into the mattress at Frenchie’s sides. He drags a hand down between their bodies and works it between Frenchie’s legs. Frenchie’s fills his palm up, hard and hot even through his clothes. “Fuck” grits out when Frenchie’s eyes roll back.

M.M. keeps him present with teeth on his jaw. Stubble scrapes under his bite, it feels good against his tongue. Frenchie pushes a palm down his back, slips it into the gap at the small of his back and pushes. M.M. sinks down harder, almost splinters his own wrist off in the process.

His huff says he doesn’t approve, but he’s already pulling his hand back. Replaces it with a leg pushed between Frenchie’s. Frenchie’s breath chokes out, and his waist darts up for more. He responds to everything, and M.M. has to wonder if it’s all from the mark on his neck or if at least some of it is him. It feels too real to chalk up to some supe aphrodisiac. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Frenchie's pants are so tight, he may as well not have them on at all.

M.M. makes Frenchie catch his eyes. “I’m not fucking you,” he says.

Frenchie’s face clouds over; his snarl is the guy M.M. knows, with or without the supe drugs. “You _are_ a cocktease! You motherfucking-”

“Frenchie, I’m not fucking you,” M.M. repeats. “I’m going to get up and find something in this dingy-ass room that’ll pass for lube. Then, I’m getting you off. Anything else can wait. Got it?”

Frenchie’s expression does a bunch of things. He still looks mad. But as the words sink in, his eyes glint darker. M.M.'s suggestion isn't what he wants most, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it at all. Frenchie sniffs and cocks his head. “I knew big hands like yours were good for more than punching things.”

“Shut up,” M.M. replies on auto-pilot. Frenchie lets out a big sigh when he’s freed from M.M.’s weight. His eyes close, and he shifts, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“Hang in there,” M.M. tells him. Caught up in the moment, he forgot what getting up for two minutes might feel like to the poor guy. Frenchie nods a few times. M.M. makes himself move faster.

There’s a small bathroom towards the front of the room. It’s seen better days. Looks clean enough, but the blue and pink wallpaper is starting to peel. The white porcelain sink has a visible crack down the side. M.M. scours through discolored cabinets and vanity drawers until he finds a travel hand cream. Not ideal, but it’s better than nothing, and hopefully hasn’t been in this room anywhere near as long as the wallpaper. M.M. heads back out to the main room, hand cream held up in triumph.

He stops in his tracks when he sees Frenchie’s pants around knees and hand full to the brim with his dick. “Jesus, man. Can’t leave you alone for two seconds.”

Tonight’s theme seems to be that when Frenchie’s left alone, weird shit happens. But damn, Frenchie looks good. Even with pants halfway down his legs. He looks like he doesn’t care about anything more than getting himself off. His movements are so frantic, his arm rucks his mesh shirt up his torso. Lets M.M. get a nice look at his abs and the way his body slopes down into his hips. His cock juts out, and M.M. kicks himself for not realizing he could have had this before. Under way less weird circumstances, even.

“You try dealing with this,” Frenchie grumbles, with other words sprinkled in that don’t sound all too polite. A few beads of sweat dot his brow, and his breath rasps from his parted lips in unsteady bursts. Closer to the bed, the tremor in Frenchie’s hand is easier to see.

M.M. isn’t gentle about yanking Frenchie’s pants and shorts off. Frenchie kicks out his legs; M.M. can’t tell if he’s helping or making it harder. Both seem right, knowing him. Frenchie grumbles, “Big bastard,” and squeezes himself. His cock stands blushed and proud between his fingers, already wet at the slit. Frenchie’s made a mess of himself, smeared his own early leaking across his skin. M.M. can see getting a taste of Frenchie himself. He’s not big on swallowing dick, but situations can persuade him. Another time.

M.M. climbs back on the bed. His hand scratches mesh on its way up to Frenchie's face. Frenchie lets M.M. guide him and surges up for M.M.’s mouth. His struggling sound worms its way into M.M.’s gut. It’s a nice distraction while M.M. flicks the top off the hand cream. Thick enough, he decides, fingers coated liberally. M.M. peels Frenchie’s hand off himself and replaces it with his own.

“ _Fuck._ ” The word snaps against M.M.’s neck. He would think he hurt Frenchie if not for the breathless laugh that follows. “This stuff, you should feel it.” Frenchie’s voice shivers against M.M.’s throat. “It’s like being a virgin again, you know. Anything feels like everything.”

M.M. may not know how Frenchie feels, but it’s definitely something to have someone so responsive under him. Been awhile since he’s had that too, especially with a man. He likes how Frenchie can’t seem to help himself from jutting up. How choked his breaths are getting. How hard Frenchie is gripping his shoulder blades through his shirt.

Feels right to kiss him as the sound of skin between lotioned skin gets louder and faster. M.M. will have some good one-liners about French kissing after tonight, that’s for sure. For now, he likes how it feels getting deep with Frenchie. Tasting the ridges on the roof of his mouth. The warm welcome of Frenchie’s tongue meeting his.

M.M. likes it all so much, he forgets to gripe about Frenchie unzipping his pants without asking. He’s hard in his slacks, and it doesn’t take much convincing for Frenchie to get him out and pull him in hand. Frenchie’s found the lotion too, by the slick wetness of his hand. Feels easy and smooth, M.M. glides right into his palm, fills it up without trying. Frenchie huffs a laugh against his jaw. “Of course you would be horse hung, huh?”

“Heard you liked that,” M.M. says. He hasn’t, but it’s an easy guess. Frenchie has experienced fingers. He squeezes nice, and he knows the pressure points. Works a groan out of M.M. before M.M. can decide whether he should bite it back or not.

“Oui,” Frenchie agrees. “Go big or go home. Isn’t that what they say?”

M.M. doesn’t bother answering. He’s more interested in kissing the question off Frenchie’s mouth and working him to a faster rhythm. Frenchie’s breaths stutter under him. His movements fall out of rhythm, like his body wants to go faster than his mind can process. M.M. tries to keep up with him. Frenchie bridges under his body, taut lines of tension grooved under his skin. He rasps against M.M.’s clothes. M.M. can tell he’s getting close. Whatever Eclipse sent shooting through Frenchie’s veins has him responding to everything. Every brush of a finger sends his body into fresh shivers. His eyes don’t seem to be able to focus, flitting around as he gulps for air.

Frenchie must see something change in M.M.’s face, because he rasps, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

So M.M. doesn’t stop. He pushes the pace. Works his white-knuckled grip until the pressure between them can’t get any tighter. They meet in the middle, fists and cocks, grinding against each other for top billing. Frenchie’s eyes roll back. He makes this sound tight in his throat, it sets M.M.’s blood on fire. Frenchie spasms under him. His eyes squeeze shut, and he’s spilling then over M’M’s clenched fingers.

It takes M.M. a little longer to join. Frenchie’s hand stops working, and M.M. guides him through until it’s over. Then he takes over, working his own cock, flooded through the slit. He’s already teetering close, and it’s easy to reach the finish line. His come is on Frenchie’s skin, dressing him up like plenty have been before him in this dingy hotel. M.M. will tease him at some point for it.

That point isn’t now, with satisfaction loosening his limbs. Frenchie lies glazed over and gasping between kiss-swollen open lips.

“You good?” M.M. asks.

He knows Frenchie is, that he’s really good, because he doesn’t say a word. A nod is all M.M. gets, and closed eyes after that. Whatever Eclipse got in his system, a good jack off is all Frenchie needed to get it out.

M.M. pushes himself off to the side, rolls on his back and scrubs his hand behind him on the bedspread. He has to assume whoever dumped them here won’t mind a little extra cleaning bill.

“We should get out of here soon,” M.M. says.

Frenchie is lucid enough to nod again. “Soon,” he mumbles back, between two staggered breaths.

‘Soon’ isn’t right now, though, and M.M. is ok with that. Weird and awful and great as this night has been, he can’t say he minds slowing up and doing a little waiting right now. A glance assures him that Frenchie is ok. His breaths are starting to even out. The frantic tremble in his hands is gone.

For now, waiting is fine. They can deal with whatever’s next soon enough.


End file.
